


The Club

by Notatracer



Category: A Bit of Fry and Laurie RPF
Genre: M/M, Yuletide 2006
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-19
Updated: 2006-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 05:09:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1633202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notatracer/pseuds/Notatracer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stephen has long since become accustomed to the simple and irrefutable fact of life that most anything in Hugh's possession, acquired under his first name, is sure to make Stephen's life a bit more interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Club

* * *

Stephen sat on the passenger seat of the rental car, his thumb rubbing over the name imprinted on the card held in his hand. The nearly solid black card itself was rather unremarkable, except that it was issued to 'J. Laurie'. Stephen has long since become accustomed to the simple and irrefutable fact of life that most anything in my possession, acquired under my first name, is sure to make his life a bit more interesting.

For all intents and purposes James Laurie is a sexually deviant pervert. I'm quite content - as content as one can be, I suppose - in the knowledge that James doesn't exist beyond a name printed on such items as packages that arrive in the post wrapped in plain, brown paper. Everything from catalogues for unmentionables to the previously mentioned plain packages procured from Hotcocks.com are addressed to one Mister J. Laurie with the hopes of reducing the chances of opening my apartment one day to find a stranger wearing my clothing. That does happen in this strange city from time to time, you know. I think it might have something to do with the oppressive heat - or the air quality. Not to mention (even though I am mentioning it) reducing the chances of anyone finding out that I don't spend all of my spare time alternating between beating people about the head at the gym and hiring action movies of dubious quality from the Blockbuster down the street. My questionable viewing habits aren't my fault. Jason Statham is a walking wet dream. Not literally. That would be unpleasant. Er ...... I was telling a story here, wasn't I?

The subject of the membership card had come up in conversation the previous night, shortly after I'd gingerly extracted my latest internet shopping purchase from my nether regions.

With a shuddering sigh, I collapsed back upon my damp and rather sticky sheets. I swallowed hard while trying to focus my blurred vision on a pink and disheveled Stephen.

'Jesus, Hugh.'

'Yeah.'

'I mean ... well ...'

I nodded. "I mean ... well ..." perfectly summed up my feelings also. My head was swimming and my arse was burning. I vaguely registered the heavy thump of purple plastic rolling off the bed, onto the wooden floor, as Stephen shifted over and lazily licked my lips. He remained quiet just long enough for his asthmatic lungs to work up enough pluck to venture forth into the world of sentences.

'You're so fucking beautiful.'

I could feel my ears flushing a horrible shade of pink. I mean, really, what kind of thing is that to spring on a man post-coitus? Wait, wouldn't coitus suggest that I'm a woman? As much as I fancy the idea from time to time - no. Regardless, I wish he wouldn't say things like that.

'Stop.'

'You are - especially when you've been thoroughly debauched.'

I wanted to argue the point further, but past experience has taught me that argument would only encourage him. Then, it would sound like I was fishing for compliments when I really and truly was not ... am not. I don't believe a word of it - just more of his lies. Still, on some level, it's nice to hear. It caused me to smile. Of course, he would choose that moment to ask me the question that I'd hoped he wouldn't.

'How are you feeling, dearest? Better, I hope.'

The smile slipped from my face, as I'm sure you can appreciate. I had been in a funk prior to the events I've been telling you about. I won't bore you with the details of this particular blue spell, but I will tell you that I wasn't happy. Ok, that's a given, but you know what I mean.

'I don't know.'

After shutting my eyes for a long moment, I reopened them to glance over at Stephen. He was giving me The Look. I can't really describe that particular look except to say that it was the same way he used to gaze at me back in the days before he would say "I love you." It was the look that conveyed everything that, for one reason or another, he couldn't vocalise. Given our lifestyle, we became well versed in the fine art of non-verbal communication years ago.

I gave him a small, half-smile in return. He traced his fingers along the dimples hidden under the coarse surface of my stubbled cheeks. He laid back on the bed, taking me with him. I sighed, nestling my face against the crook of his neck.

This is getting rather sappy... and, quite frankly, a smidge embarrassing. Let's skip ahead to the conversation once our silent bit of rest was over.

'I met a guy ...'

Christ. No wonder everyone says I'm turning American.

'... er, man - an actor - named Dan a few month ago, you know.'

'Oh?'

'We had a chat and he told me about this place he thought I might enjoy. He said it was a private club... discreet.'

'You aren't telling people, are you?'

'What? No, no. He was the one who asked me. I guess I don't hide it as well as I thought.'

'Darling, the fact that more people don't know is a testament to the lack of observational skills by the viewing several. I could write "poof" across your face with a pink biro and I doubt they would take notice. Oh, but do continue telling me about this Dan person.'

'There's not much to tell about him, really. He was nice, but not my type. I told him I was doubly spoken for. He said he _wasn't_ trying to ask me out.'

'A blow for the ego, I'm sure.'

'Of course.'

'Not the sort of blow you were hoping for.'

'Don't start. He told me about the club and offered to vouch for me so I could become a member. I went with him to fill in a form to join. It was ... something. Picture the private rooms of The Groucho, but with an endless sea of twinkie boys and electro.'

'Enjoy yourself?'

'Er, well, I only went in the one time to look round. I stayed just long enough to know that I wanted to, you know, bring you back with me.'

'So, when are we going?'

'Tomorrow, maybe. If I can remember the address.'

I'd like to take this moment of interruption to point out some discrepancies between what I told Stephen and what actually happened. For one, Dan wasn't all that nice after he found out I wasn't interested. He actually did ask me out, but it wasn't until two days after I became a member of the club. When I declined, he called me a "stepford fag wannabe." I wasn't sure what that was ... I'm still not completely sure ... but I am sure that he's lucky we weren't on set at the time. I've become quite skilled with the cane.

It was just after sunset when Stephen and I stepped into the main room of the club that neither of us had yet to learn the name of. The music thumped so loudly that I could actually feel my internal organs jostling about. Even with the noise, the moans and curses from our fellow patrons could be heard. And, by "fellow patrons," I mean a group of lithe bodies, half my age, in various stages of undress. The dim, blue lighting barely illuminated the otherwise pitch black room. The heat generated by the press of bodies made my clothing stick to me from almost the moment of walking in the door.

To give you the full visual: I was wearing a partially unbuttoned shirt, a pair of too-tight jeans that Stephen claims should be illegal, and my black Adidas. Stephen had insisted on my wearing of that particular shirt because it would show off the massive hickey that I'd been doing my level best to conceal. I was starting to regret my choice in trousers. Not only because the visual stimuli was making them more than a little uncomfortable, but the heat was causing my legs to sweat ... which, in turn, caused the denim to rub rather smartly against the bruises on my inner thighs. Don't ask. Stephen, on the other hand, seemed quite comfortable and (disturbingly) in his element. Then again, he had dressed far more casually with t-shirt, brown cords, and my sodding burgundy Converse that I haven't seen since. Why must he always steal my shoes?

The room had an odd smell. It wasn't simply the combination of all the masculine scents, but it was something different all together. It was a familiar scent, but one I couldn't quite place. I was sure Stephen would know. I was just about to ask him when all of my thoughts ran together and floated away completely. I giggled to myself. Why? I have no idea. It was at that moment when a hand snaked its way into the opening of my shirt. I turned, somehow expecting the hand to belong to Stephen, despite the fact that the hand was brown and entered from the opposite direction.

It was getting hard to focus, but I was almost certain that someone was kissing Stephen. I swayed slightly and giggled again. I wondered why I was giggling, but then shook the question away by becoming almost mesmerised by the sight of the naked blonde sticking his tongue into Stephen's mouth. Stephen didn't seem to mind. He always did have a thing for skinny blondes.

I turned to the other side, intent on finding the owner of the hand, only to discover that while I'd been lost in the vision of Stephen and his new friend's tongues intertwining, my shirt had been removed. The darkest eyes I could ever remember seeing came into my line of vision seconds before the stranger's lips were on mine and his pulsing tongue was forcibly plundering my mouth. These boys certainly were aggressive.

A tugging on my hand pulled me away from the kiss. I was relieved that it was Stephen who had saved me from the dark adonis. As beautiful as he was, I only had an interest in sharing this experience with the man I love. Stephen pulled me through the room - hands groping from all sides, lips brushing my exposed skin.

Stephen shoved me against a wall next to two men fucking each other into oblivion. Their moans in my ear caused me to blush a heat that I could feel creeping down my neck. The coolness of the wall was a welcome relief to the stifling air of the room. Stephen ground his body against mine as our tongues fought for dominance. He always wins that little game, but half the fun is in the playing. My fingers wrapped themselves in his hair. His hands rubbed down my sweat drenched stomach, unbuckling my belt when he came to it.

The next thing I knew, there were thumbs pressing sharply into my bruised thighs and a foreign mouth sucking me off. I reluctantly detached myself from Stephen's kiss to look down at the waif on his knees. Strangely enough, watching him work a mouth that clearly knew its way round a cock was starting to make me go a big, limp one. I gently shoved the kid off, replacing his mouth with Stephen's hand. I sighed, no longer feeling in the mood for this mass exhibitionism.

'Let's go home.'

Less than a half hour later, I was face down on the bed with my hands bound behind my back by a tie adorned with metallic flowers. I was trying to get a bit of friction happening against the sheets since Stephen was driving me mad with his shallow strokes. His hands were gripping my arms tightly. I could feel his arms shaking with the obvious effort it was taking for him not to pound me into the bed. My hands were becoming numb. My feet were trying their hardest to dig a hole into the mattress. And, more than anything, my balls were hurting something fierce. I groaned, loud and long, into the pillow. I know it sounds like I'm complaining, but I was loving every minute of my divine torture. Even so, it was a blessed relief when I felt the familiar twitch and surge of warmth as Stephen came inside me.

After he withdrew and wiped himself off on my clean sheets (bastard), he rolled me over onto my back. I bit my lip and looked up at him - doing my best _not_ to look at my sorry excuse for a manhood aching ... begging ... to be touched. He ran a finger down the sparse line of hair bellow my belly button.

'I love you.'

He quirked his lips in reply, taking me into his hand. As he leant down, I breathed a silent 'thank you' for what I thought was to, er, come. Instead, he blew out a long stream of air, which elicited an involuntary jerk in response. He licked his lips and smiled. I simply glared at him. He went back to his crouching position and began moving his hand up and down. It was rough, quick, and felt as if he were trying to start a fire. I'm sure he was rubbing me raw on purpose so that no matter what I did for the next day or so, I'd think of this moment. My suspicions were only furthered the next day over the smug look of satisfaction he got every time I felt a warm blush cross my ears for seemingly no reason. I knew the reason and I knew that he knew the reason, but anyone else probably just thought I'd been out in the sun for too long.

The fingers of his unoccupied hand dug into my leg as my cock sprung to spasmodic life, spilling its contents. When I regained some semblance of consciousness, he was licking a trail across my stomach. I closed my eyes, but wasn't the least bit surprised when his tongue dipped into my mouth. The rational portion of my brain told me that I should gag, but I deepened the kiss ... trying to push myself up against him despite my lack of mobility. If my hands hadn't been pinned beneath me, I'd have wrapped my arms round him. I wanted to hold onto him and never let go.

'Are you going to untie me?'

'Not yet.'

He pulled me up into a sitting position, propping me against the headboard so I wouldn't tip over. He reached over onto the bedside table, retrieving my pack of Marlboro Lights from on top of my dog-eared copy of _Catch-22_ , lighting himself one. I raised an eyebrow.

'What happened to quitting?'

'I can be bad now and again. That reminds me -'

He plucked the cigarette from between his lips, placing it in mine, before disappearing from the bedroom. Seconds later, he reemerged with his camera.

'... fuck ...'

I closed my eyes, turning my head, just before the camera flashed. Thinking back on it, that probably wasn't best of ideas since the angle surely must've afforded him an excellent shot of the giant hickey.

Later that night, we sat on the balcony in companionable silence. The only noises came from the wind rustling through the nearby palm tree and the ceaseless sounds of the cars below. Our fingers were intertwined and my head was resting on his shoulder. As sleep started to over take me, he whispered, 'Love you, Squeaky.'

I smiled.

You know, as strange as it is to say, I think I actually felt happy.

 

 

 


End file.
